


Factor VIII

by andiheardeverything



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, blaine and kurt, factor viii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andiheardeverything/pseuds/andiheardeverything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Hemophilia</i> (heem-o-FILL-ee-ah): a rare bleeding disorder in which clotting factor viii in the coagulation pathways is missing or inhibited.</p>
<p><i>Blaine Anderson</i>: a delicate boy in a big wide world, just looking for a place to belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Factor VIII

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for minor descriptions of blood and hospital situations

 

When Blaine is little he pretends his world is made of glass.

When he isn’t allowed outside, when he watches the other kids running around the playground, shrieking and screaming and falling down and getting back up and everything he _isn’t_ allowed to do. When he begs and begs and his mom finally, _finally,_ lets him go play, fully clothed, protected with knee and elbow pads. When the other kids point and laugh. When Blaine leaves, hot tears filling his eyes as he rips off those _stupid_ elbow pads, clutching them tight before throwing them down, his mother just taking his hand, whispering comforting words that aren’t enough.

When Blaine is five and all alone, that’s when Blaine pretends. He goes back to his room, pulls out his stuffed animals (plastic toys are too dangerous for breakable little boys) and tells them _no_. No, you’re not allowed to go outside. Outside is fragile. Outside is delicate. Outside might break. Outside, everything is made of glass.

He pretends. He’s good at pretending. There’s nothing wrong with him. It’s the world that’s breakable. He can’t climb trees because glass trees will crumble. He can’t ride a bike because he’ll shatter the pavement beneath his wheels. He can’t play baseball because grass is the most delicate of all. His stuffed animals agree, lined up all in a row listening to his lecture. He picks them up so, so delicately, opens his bay window and leans against the padded corners, clutches his favorite bear to his chest and lets the wind blow over his face, and pretends.

-

His dad builds him a sandbox. It’s small, like him, but he bounces with excitement as his dad pounds the nails into the frame, pours in bag after bag of sand. Blaine thinks it looks like a waterfall, the way the sand cascades from the bag.

His mom watches while he plays. He brings out his stuffed animals, even though she says they’ll get dirty, and builds them forts and castles and everywhere he wants to be. His mother smiles, and he drags her over, makes her play with him because grownups still need fun too, right?

“Do you know what sand is?” she asks him when the sun is starting to dip under the horizon. Blaine, shakes his head, leaning against her side, mindlessly digging small holes with his thumb. “It’s tiny little rocks, that used to be big rocks but they were slowly worn down over a long, long time, until they become sand.”

Blaine bites his lip, scoops as much sand as he can fit in his small hand, examines it.

“But how?”

His mom holds him closer and Blaine lets the sand slip between the cracks in his fingers, snuggles into her side.

“The world is a dangerous place, Blaine. Even the strongest things get broken down.”

He stays silent, mind racing with this new information.

“And sometimes, if lightning hits the sand, it turns into glass.”

Blaine’s not sure he likes sandboxes anymore.

-

Blaine makes his first friend in middle school. It’s his first year going to a real school, the first year his mother is letting him out of her sight, his first year getting to explore the world. His mother calls all his teachers, he’s exempt from gym, he feels like everyone _knows_ but he can’t bring himself to care. Because to him, it feels like he’s finally free.

He hikes up his backpack that first day, grips the straps nervously, waits in the driveway for his mom to take him to school (buses are dangerous, there’s too many people and no seatbelts). He’s eleven and his heart is pounding too-thin blood through his chest and he can barely contain himself for how excited he is. His mom kisses his cheek and barely has time to wish him luck when Blaine’s out of the car, walking the stretch to his shiny new life.

Tyler sits with him at lunch that first day. Blaine hadn’t realized how many people would already have friends, that this isn’t everyone’s first day of school, _ever_. It doesn’t take long for Blaine to feel lost, alone in a sea of people he doesn’t recognize. He takes a seat in the corner of the lunch room, slowly unpacks his sandwich and juice box, prepared to eat in silence. Until a voice, a timid, “hello?”

And a boy, with sandy blond hair and a nervous smile. Blaine looks at him, blinks, smiles back.

“Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken.”

Blaine nods, moves his stuff so the boy can sit next to him.

“I’m Tyler,” the boy introduces, emptying his own lunchbox.

“I’m Blaine,” Blaine echoes, wondering why his heart is suddenly beating so fast.

“I like your bracelet,” Tyler says after a few moments of silence. Blaine looks at his bracelet, silver with a tiny red engraving, the words _hemophilia_ scrawling in small letters across the bottom, and fiddles self-consciously.

“Thanks.”

Tyler offers him a Pringle but Blaine just blushes and shakes his head (he’s not allowed to eat chips, they’re too sharp). Instead Tyler gives him his fruit snacks and Blaine think they’re the best fruit snacks he’s ever had.

-

Different makes you a target. It’s something Blaine learns quickly. Different means spitballs in your hair, means your books knocked to the floor, means words muttered behind your back. Different means pressing your forehead into the bathroom stall, blinking back tears and telling yourself to get a grip. Different means trying so hard to be _normal_ , and never quite making it.

Different means humiliation.

Blaine is fourteen and confused and sometimes he wonders if they’re right. If they’re right about _him_. If they’re right about _different_.

Most nights, Blaine cries himself to sleep, clutching the same bear who used to sit with him at the windowsill. He cries because of the bruises, because of the names, because of the way his eyes linger on Tyler longer than they should. He cries because sometimes it feels like nothing will ever be okay. He cries because _he’ll_ never be okay.

He’ll never be anything than different.

-

It happens after school in February. Blaine and Tyler are in Blaine’s room (Blaine’s not allowed to go to Tyler’s house, not after he cut himself on the edge of Tyler’s coffee table, blood ruining the only escape he’s ever had) and they’re just sitting. They do this a lot, sitting. Blaine’s cross-legged on the end of his bed, playing with the tassels of his blanket. Tyler’s next to him, feet barely brushing the floor as he swings them, gazing up at the solar system stickers Blaine spent two whole weeks putting up when he was younger.

“Do you ever feel like you’re stuck?” Blaine asks suddenly, biting his lip. Tyler’s gaze is curious, searching, eyes filled with something Blaine doesn’t understand.

“Yes.”

Blaine twiddles his thumbs.

“I hate it.”

Tyler puts a hand on Blaine’s knee and it feels as hot as fire.

“Me too.”

Silence.

“Blaine?” Tyler’s voice, nervous and shaky. “Can you keep a secret?”

Blaine turns, finds Tyler’s face inches from his own, nods mutely. Green eyes meet his own, flicker over his face, over the freckles on his nose, down to his lips and suddenly Blaine understands.

He understands and he _feels_ and he _explodes_ , blood pumping and lungs screaming and lips are on his own and nothing has ever felt so

right.

-

His mother cries when he tells her. He cries too and the tears are salty against on his lips and Blaine can’t help but feel like he’s failed somehow. But his mother just brushes fingers through his hair, holds him close, and tells him it will be okay. They’ll figure this out and she still loves him but don’t tell your father, not yet.

He finds out anyway.

That night he doesn’t cry. He just stares at the ceiling, his solar system glowing unnatural green in the dark. He lifts a hand up and if he squints his eyes and turns his head, he can pretend that he can grab it. He can grab the sun and never let go.

-

Blaine asks Tyler to the dance. He waits until they’re alone, gives him a flower and blushes from ears to toes while he waits for Tyler’s answer. The quiet _yes_ is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

Blaine spends hours picking out his outfit. He ignores his mother’s sad looks as she helps him, ties his tie and smoothes his hair and warns him about sharp ice and bumping into other people. He ignores her because _nothing_ is going to ruin his night.

He sees someone happy in the mirror for the first time since he can remember. He can’t keep the smile from his face, can’t stop the butterflies in his stomach, even when his mother makes him sit, wait while she hooks his replacement therapy to the port in his arm ( _just in case_ she says), pumps him full of the clotting factors he was born without. None of it matters because tonight he’s going to a dance with a boy whose lips are so soft, whose skin glows in the moonlight.

He leaves the silver bracelet ( _what a pretty little bracelet for a pretty little princess,_ they say to him, laughing in the halls) abandoned on his dresser, wanting to pretend, at least for one night, that there’s nothing wrong with him. His wrist feels light, unchained somehow, and Blaine’s pretty sure he can fly.

So he does.

They giggle and blush when they hold hands, avoiding each other’s eyes as they dance in the dark corner of the gym. They don’t really touch, too shy and aware of the eyes on them, but Tyler’s hand brushes Blaine’s waist and Blaine shivers, acutely aware of the inches between them, of the way Tyler’s looking up at him through bashful eyes.

“My dad will be here soon,” he says, reluctantly but Blaine just nods, can’t find the breath to respond, lets Tyler twine their fingers together as they leave to the parking lot to wait, Blaine vibrating with anticipation at will happen next.

next

The moonlight makes everything glow, glints off the blood that just won’t _stop_ , off the tears streaming down Tyler’s face. Blaine stares at it in wonder, doesn’t hear Tyler’s screams for help, doesn’t register the pain, just stares at the ruby red, at the way it grows every time he coughs, at the way it seems so vibrant next to the dull black asphalt.

He wants to touch it, to grab it, to hold it, so he tries, doesn’t understand why his arm feels so heavy, why Tyler cries harder, why he feels so fuzzy, like he’s being covered with a warm blanket, heavy and soft as he drifts…away.

-

Tyler visits him.

It’s nice, makes the stark white and baby blue of the hospital room seem less harsh.

Tyler doesn’t touch him, doesn’t hold his hand even when Blaine leaves it open for him. He can’t really blame him. His skin is mottled purple, swollen. Breakable, just like his mother always said.

Tyler sits with him. Doesn’t say anything except _he’s sorry_.

Blaine tries to brush it off.

Tries to laugh, to joke, to _anything_.

Just wants things to be normal again.

Tyler fades away, smoke from a dying fire.

-

Dalton is steel. Dalton is safe. Dalton is secure.

The stiff uniform feels like a shield, covers the lingering bruises, the shiny bracelet he doesn’t dare take off again. When he steps in the halls, into the sea of students who look _just like him_ , he feels… protected. No one knows who he is, no one really cares. He’s not different here… he’s just… someone.

It’s nice. Blaine makes some friends, casually, begins to fill the ache where Tyler used to be. They ask him to sing for them, they don’t care about his _disease_ , they’ll pad all the tables if needed, it doesn’t matter, Dalton is about _acceptance_.

Blaine smiles, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes.

He’s happy, he tells himself.

Because safe is happy, right?

-

Time passes

-

There’s a boy on the staircase

-

_Kurt_

-

He’s caught in a hurricane. The wind whips his hair and stings his skin and his heart is ready to thump right out of his chest.

He’s swept up and away and for the first time he wonders if someone is more damaged than he is.

-

Blaine wants to help Kurt.

Blaine _needs_ to help Kurt.

Kurt, who’s so fragile and beautiful and breakable and strong and has caught Blaine up in something he can’t even _comprehend._

He just wants to help.

He doesn’t show Kurt the bruise on his back from the fence Karofsky pushed him into.

Kurt doesn’t need to know.

-

Sometimes Blaine wonders if he was right when he was five. About the world being made of glass.

Or maybe it’s just Kurt.

-

“I don’t know how to feel.”

They’re in Blaine’s dorm when Kurt says it. The TV flickers with a movie that Blaine isn’t paying attention to, Kurt sitting next to him on the bed, guarded and sad. Blaine looks at Kurt, follows the curve of his nose, the way he’s biting his lips, his eyes shining with years of unshed tears.

“He… he took it all away.”

Blaine doesn’t have to ask who _he_ is.

“He took _me_ away.”

Kurt cries and Blaine holds him, hands smoothing circles over his back.

“I know,” he whispers into Kurt’s hair. “They took me away too.”

-

_You need to tell him_ , they say.

_He’s your best friend._

_He deserves to know._

_…_

_You can’t hide forever_.

-

It’s an accident. Blaine’s always been a little clumsy, something his mother has always hated. _Would you be more careful?_ She would hiss when Blaine would trip, the bruises on his hands and knees lingering for weeks. Blaine would cry, he didn’t mean to fall. It’s not his fault his body isn’t normal. It’s not his fault he’s made of glass.

This time, it happens during Warbler’s practice. They’re rehearsing for Regionals, stepping up the choreography, and Blaine is overly confident. He can’t help it. He feels so _free_ here, sometimes he just… forgets.

He twirls, oversteps, feet slipping off the table ( _why did I have to jump on the table_ , he asks himself later), and he falls to the floor. Hard.

His knees take the brunt of the fall and Kurt’s the first to his side, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Wes is there next, eyebrows drawing together in concern. He knows.

Blaine can already feel his knees beginning to swell, blood filling the joints and he wants to scream. He wants to scream at his body for betraying him, for ruining every good thing he’s ever had.

Kurt looks confused as Wes asks him if he needs to go to the hospital, eyes wide with panic when Blaine nods. His gaze flickers to Blaine’s swollen knees, back to his face, and Blaine can’t meet his eyes.

He feels like he’s failed him.

Blaine Anderson.

_Failure._

-

“I wish you had told me,” Kurt says in the hospital.

Blaine’s there for a week, being pumped full of clotting factors and having the blood drained from his knees. His mom sits at his bedside, eyes sad, doesn’t say anything when Kurt comes to visit. Blaine wishes she would.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Blaine whispers back, fiddles with a loose thread on his blanket.

“Why not?”

_Isn’t it obvious?_

“I wanted to be strong. For you.”

Blaine’s ready for Kurt to pull away, just like Tyler did. Just like everyone does.

Instead Kurt just smiles, wraps his hand around Blaine’s and gives a gentle squeeze.

“You are strong. Still.”

-

After, Kurt opens up. The walls fall away. He smiles at Blaine, bumps their shoulder lightly when they watch movies, talks for hours about fashion and Broadway and the new youtube channels he’s following.

When Blaine brings it up, Kurt just shrugs.

“We know each other’s secrets now. You’re no longer dark and mysterious. You’re just… Blaine.”

_Just Blaine_.

Blaine thinks he likes that.

-

A bird dies.

-

Oh

            There you are

I’ve been looking for you

                                                Forever

-

Being with Kurt has always been amazing.

_Being_ with Kurt is… exhilarating. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

Everything is the same and yet so different. The light touches send sparks shooting, the knowing grins make hearts flutter. Kurt’s lips are so soft and pink and _kissable_ and Blaine has no idea what he’s doing but he doesn’t care because for once everything feels _right._

And he must be doing something right because Kurt certainly hasn’t made to pull away.

At first it’s gentle. Soft kisses while they practice, light pecks when they say goodbye. Then it’s exploratory. Hands roaming over backs, lips crushed together and tongues mapping out mouths. Then it’s exciting. Frantic makeouts while watching a movie, breathy groans when skin grazes over skin.

Blaine never wants it to stop.

Unfortunately, things never seem to work out the way he wants.

-

They’ve been dating for about month. A late dinner and a movie neither of them really pays attention to leads to the car parked a block away from Kurt’s house, both boys shoved in the cramped backseat.

It’s rougher than before, more desperate. Heady breaths escape Kurt as he presses Blaine against the door, mouthing over his jaw, down his neck, latching onto the dip just above Blaine’s clavicle, drawing a desperate whimper. Blaine’s hands fumble with Kurt’s shirt, sneaking under and pressing against the warm skin of Kurt’s stomach. Kurt moans, knees moving to either side of Blaine’s hips, settling heavily onto Blaine’s lap.

Fingers tangle in his hair, move down his back, pulling Blaine closer while pushing him hard into the door, wanting, craving, _needing_ everything and yet scared to go further than they’ve already gone.

It doesn’t matter. Blaine can feel Kurt pressing down against him, hips involuntarily jerking, a shaky breath followed by his name.

“Kurt, oh my go- _Kurt._ ” Blaine digs fingers into Kurt’s side and Kurt nips at Blaine’s collar bone, digging his hip down onto Blaine.

“Hmfft,” Kurt mutters into Blaine’s neck, skin unbelievably _hot_ against Blaine, and he’s sure he’s going to melt into a puddle of nothing if Kurt keeps this up. He can feel himself getting hard, straining against the zipper of his pants and he’s not sure what to do, they’ve never done _this_ before. But it feels too good to stop so he rocks his hips up to meet Kurt’s, a groan catching in his throat. He’s embarrassingly close and with the little whimpering noises Kurt is making, the way he trails back up Blaine’s neck to suck his lower lip in his mouth, he knows he’s not going to last.

“ _Blaine_.”

The name is hot breath in his mouth, lower than he’s ever heard Kurt speak and Blaine’s head smacks back against the glass as sparks fly. He can’t help the groan that escapes him and Kurt stutters against him, his head falling back to the crook of Blaine’s shoulder.

When Blaine’s eyes flutter open he notices the windows are fogged and he wonders when his life became a cheesy romantic movie.

Not that he’s going to complain.

Against him, Kurt stirs, blinks tired eyes up at him.

“That was… nice.”

Blaine presses a kiss to his forehead.

-

He’s getting ready for his shower the next morning, the memory of _Kurt_ still heavy in his skin. He hums to himself and his cheeks almost ache with how much he’s been smiling.

Until he looks in the mirror.

A deep purple spreads over his shoulder, focused on the hollow where Kurt’s lips had been the night before, bleeding over the bone, stopping just under where his shirt will cover. He prods it gently, winces.

Turns.

Bruises up his back, purple-yellow splotches where the car door had dug in, smaller, circular bruises that perfectly match Kurt’s fingertips.

Blaine throws the bar of soap at the mirror, glares as it bounces to the floor.

His body ruins everything.

-

He tries to hide it from Kurt.

It works for about eight hours.

-

Kurt shows up after class, with that blushing, bashful smile, biting his bottom lip and toeing at the floor.

Blaine shrugs under his uniform, feeling too hot, too aware, too scared. Kurt sits on the bed next to him, _so_ close, his shoulder bumping Blaine’s, eyes bright and expectant.

“So…”

Blaine twiddles his thumbs.

“Last night was fun.”

Blaine clears his throat.

“Yeah… it was. Fun.”

Kurt frowns.

“Is everything okay?”

_Get a grip, Blaine_.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, I’m just… tired.”

Kurt looks suspicious.

“Nap with me?”

Blaine falls back on the bed with an exaggerated _oomph_ , drags Kurt down with him. Kurt chuckles, settles in beside him, giggles when Blaine darts a kiss to the end of his nose.

They sleep.

-

Blaine wakes to a yelp.

Kurt’s eyes are wide, focused somewhere below Blaine’s ear. Blaine blinks, sleep still crowding his thoughts.

“Wha-”

“Blaine… your…” Kurt trails off and Blaine’s stomach sinks. He scrambles up, trying to pull his shirt up from where it’s slipped down his shoulder, but it’s too late.

It’s always too late.

Kurt’s face is pale, eyes drifting between Blaine’s face and neck.

“What happened?”

Blaine swallows, doesn’t have the energy to resist when Kurt leans forward, unbuttons the top of Blaine’s shirt, pushes it aside for a better look.

“I did that.”

The words are whispered and Blaine knows there’s no point in denying it.

“What… what else?”

Blaine finds his voice.

“Kurt it’s… it’s fine. It’s okay.”

Kurt’s head shakes frantically, eyes welling.

“No, it’s _not_ , Blaine. I hurt you. I _hurt_ you. I… need to see.”

Blaine just shrugs. If Kurt’s going to leave (and this really is Tyler all over again, isn’t it?) he might as well get it over with.

He takes off his shirt.

-

that night

alone in his bed

he cries

alone

-

Flowers.

Red and yellow.

Waiting outside his door.

Blaine smiles.

-

“I’m sorry.”

Blaine laces thin fingers through his own.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Wide blue eyes meet hazel.

“Yes, I do. I shouldn’t have acted like that… I…”

Blaine waits.

“I’m just so scared of… of hurting you.”

Blaine waits.

“I forgot.”

Blaine withdraws his hand.

“You forgot. About how breakable your poor boyfriend is? About how fragile he is?”

His voice wavers and he hates himself.

“Blaine, I…”

Blaine stands, steps away.

“All my life I’ve been told what I _can’t_. You’re my _can,_ Kurt. Please don’t be another _can’t_.” 

-

By now, Blaine should know that good things don’t happen to broken little boys.

-

It takes a week.

A week of silence. Emptiness. Loneliness.

A week without Kurt.

-

Blaine knocks on the door, nervous. Burt answers, smiles.

The stairs feel like a death march, each foot dragging more reluctantly, each step that much higher than the last.

Kurt’s door is closed and he shifts nervously, contemplates just leaving.

He can’t.

The door creaks as he swings it open, Kurt looks up, eyes lighting with surprise.

“Blaine.”

“Kurt.”

“I didn’t think you… you wanted to see me again.”

“I didn’t.”

“oh.”

Blaine takes a step forward, faulty blood pounding in his ears.

“But I missed you.”

Kurt’s lips twitch, hopeful.

“I missed you too.”

Blaine rubs his collar bone, where Kurt’s hickey lingers, sits on the edge of the bed, shoves his hands under his knees, stares at the floor.

“I’m so tired of my body betraying me.”

The bed dips beside him, knees knocking his own.

“I wish I could understand.”

Blaine taps Kurt’s ankle with his foot.

“I’m sorry I got upset. Sometimes I think… I try and pretend too much. Like, if I pretend everything is normal, that _I’m_ normal, then it will be, but… it won’t. It never will.”

Silence.

Then.

“I don’t think you’re breakable.”

Kurt lets his head rest against Blaine’s before continuing.

“I think… I need to figure out _this._ I can’t… I hate hurting you, Blaine. But, I’ve hurt you even more, by being scared of hurting you. You’re not breakable, Blaine. You’re so strong. You’ve been so strong for me. For you. For everything. But I need… _we_ need to figure out where to meet. In the middle. Because _I_ can’t ignore it and I know you want to but acknowledging it doesn’t make you weak Blaine. It doesn’t make you fragile. It makes you so much stronger than you can even realize.”

Kurt deflates, the words coming out in a rush, taking everything. Blaine smiles, leans back against Kurt.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We’ll meet in the middle.”

-

“Do-over?”

“Hi, my name is Blaine Anderson, and I have type A hemophilia.”

“Nice to meet you, Blaine. I’m Kurt Hummel. My left leg is two inches shorter than my right and I have a wart on my elbow that just won’t go away.”

“Wait… really?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

-

They lie in bed together, legs tangled, shirts on the floor. Kurt traces a finger, up Blaine’s arm, over his shoulder, down his chest. Up, over, down. His touch is light, tickles and sends goosebumps in their wake.

Kurt pauses. “Does it hurt?” His thumb lingers around the port, sewn in just under Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine eyes it, remembers the first time Kurt saw it. How he had blushed, self-conscious, the plastic nub unnatural against his skin, a constant reminder of _different_.

“No. I’m used to it.”

Kurt nods, presses a kiss just to the side of it. His fingers drift over the scars on his arm, frowns.

“They have to rotate it,” Blaine explains. “Every few years.”

“Can you show me? How… how to use it?”

He doesn’t know why, can’t really explain it, but his eyes fill with tears; a shaky, happy laugh escapes his lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

Kurt smiles, stretches up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Thank you.”

With Kurt, _different_ is okay. _Different_ is to be loved. _Different_ doesn’t mean bad, ugly, outcast. _Different_ is just different. Different is him. Is them.

-

They figure it out.  
 _  
_


End file.
